


Something There

by SilverCyanide (LemonFairy)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonFairy/pseuds/SilverCyanide
Summary: Jesse McCree is no stranger to the cause and effect of consequences. He just didn't imagine they'd happen quite this way.





	1. New and a bit Alarming

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles* Did you want some Slow Burn, along with a lot of tooth rotting, fluffy, domesticity? Then buckle up, kids, because this fic is here to do that. 
> 
> NOTES: This fic is gonna heavily feature pregnancy of a transgender male character. I'm trans (though not trans male), so writing from a combo of experiences and details from trans people I know who've been through it. Feel free to call my mistakes, but believe me, I'm doing my best.

All in all, the mission’s gone well. Three days in Barcelona to scope out a blip of activity from a new gang, Safire, and even without lethal force, the crew took down a good chunk of supporters. The downside is Safire knows they’re onto them, but given what they discovered about their shabby operations, McCree thinks it’s likely they’ll run themselves into the ground without further Overwatch intervention.

Point being: threat’s been neutralized. Everything’s good, for the time being. He didn’t even come back with anything broken, for the first time in a while, so he’s feeling pretty solid.

Except he’s still stuck in the damn medbay.

He’d been back on Gibraltar all of ten minutes before the good doctor had come sweeping in and demanding his presence. He’d wanted to protest, but Angela’s steely gaze had cut through him before he got a chance, and so he resigned himself to waiting a little longer for a hot shower and a good nap.

Despite her demands, Angela hadn’t been forthcoming with _why_ she’d wanted to see him. Just took his blood, averted his questioned, and disappeared.

That was nearly twenty minutes ago. Despite his lack of major injuries, McCree knows he’s going to be sore tomorrow and bruised in a few places beyond recognition, so sitting on this stiff exam table isn’t helping his spirits or his body any.

After what feels an eternity (and is at least a half hour total), Angela comes back into the room. She’s flipping through a stack of papers and is frowning. Something flips over inside McCree.

“Everything ok doc?” he asks, trying to sound lighthearted. Angela looks up at him; despite her calm, even caring, demeanor, her eyes are sharp.

“In a manner of speaking.” She’s looking him dead in the eye when she next speaks. “You are pregnant.”

Jesse McCree feels his heart stutter.

“I--what?!”

“I ran your blood tests thrice; it is not a false positive. You’re pregnant.”

Part of him sinks, heavy to the pit of his stomach; another part rises, stuck in the back of his throat. Pregnant. _Pregnant_. Christ. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“How’s that even possible?” he chokes out.

The doctor is looking at him like he’s just asked something spectacularly stupid. McCree supposes maybe he has.

“I just mean--I haven’t had a period in years. ‘S not… I didn’t think…”

“There’s always the risk, without full hysterectomy or oophorectomy. Testosterone doesn’t automatically render you infertile.”

She looks at McCree like she’s expecting him to argue, to continue to deny. He just stares ahead, trying to blink himself from cotton-headed to reality.

 _Pregnant_ . Damn. It makes _sense_ , too--his mood and libido’ve been more up and down lately, and he’s had a persistent, low grade stomach problem the past few weeks.  But still… pregnant.

“How far?” he asks after a minute. His throat aches when he swallows.

“Nine weeks, give or take,” she tells him. “You’ve got options--obviously, if you choose to go through with it, Overwatch guarantees your medical care and parental leave the same as any other employee. Medical abortifacients are only on the table for another week or so; surgical abortion is certainly an option, but we’re not equipped to perform that procedure here, so you’d have to travel off-base.  
  
“That said--this isn’t a decision to rush, if you’re unsure. There are protocols in place for these situations; no matter what and when your decision, you’ll be taken care of.”

McCree nods. He is silent.

Finally, he picks his hat up from where it’s been sitting next to him. He places it on his head; his hair swoops forward, but he doesn’t brush it back.

“Take some time,” she tells him again. “Talk it over. I’ll be here when you’ve made a decision.”

McCree grunts out a quiet “thank you,” and then he leaves.

 

 

 

The first thing he wants to do is smoke. He’s closed his door, got a cigar lit, and has taken two puffs, all through habit, before it hits him again-- _pregnant_. He lets it extinguish. The craving is still strong, but he feels nauseated. Shock is still climbing through him like kudzu.

He’s fucking _pregnant_.

He’s 37. No family to speak of. Been passing for over a decade. _Si_ _ngle_. And he’s pregnant.

It wouldn’t feel real, except for the part where it feels too real.

“Motherfucker!” He slams his palm against the desk. The crash echos; his palm smarts.

And to think, he’d thought things were looking up.

McCree grits his eyes shut and starts to undress. Fuck this, he needs a shower, and this all can wait. That’s what he tells himself at least.

But when he pads, nude, into the bathroom, he catches sight of his appearance and freezes.

There’s nothing actually different about him. His body--its slight layer of chub, its scars, its hair--are all just as they’ve been. But it _feels_ different, knowing it’s not just his body right now. Knowing there’s something else going on.

He shakes himself out of it and turns the shower on. _No_ , he tells himself, stepping under the hot spray, _nothing’s different_ . He’s the same as he was yesterday, and he’ll be the same tomorrow, and the day after that. This-- _inconvenience_ , is just that: an inconvenience, a problem that can be solved, and nothing more.  
  
He falls asleep not ten minutes later, damp and naked, truly believing that.


	2. I'll Just Ignore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) I'm looking for a beta for this fic, so if anyone's interested, drop me a line!
> 
> b) I'm updating once I'm two chapters ahead of posting (i.e., posting 2 when I've written 4) so that's what determines the speed. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, w/e w/e.

McCree deals with his problems like that for the next few weeks: sleeping through most of them, and avoiding them through other means when he’s expected to be awake. There are a few leads that still need to be followed up about Safire, and McCree gladly offers his time and energy, because it gives him something else to think about. Anything else to think about, really, so that he can push this pregnancy as far from his mind as possible.

At first, Angela lets him. In fact, it seems like she encourages him, because whenever he enters a room, she conveniently is needed elsewhere. McCree appreciates it: it saves him the trouble of having to come up with excuses himself. But as the days turn into weeks, she stops giving him space. If she’s not giving him pointed looks, she’s trying to trap him in a space where they’re forced to have a conversation, or use peer pressure to get him to come into her office. The chase has gotten so great that he spent a solid hour hidden in a supply closet just a few days prior, all to avoid being seen by her.

But all chases must come to an end, and for McCree, the bomb drops sooner rather than later because:

His pants no longer fit.  
  
At first, he thinks it’s a mistake. Maybe they’ve just come out of the wash ( _unlikely_ ), or he’s picked up an old pair ( _even more unlikely_ ). But sure enough, despite all of his wiggling, his jumping, his sucking in, McCree can no longer get his pants to button. When he runs a palm over his lower belly, he can tell there’s a swell there that’s new to his body.

So McCree does what any self respecting human would do: he shucks his pants, crawls back into bed, and decides it’s best to ignore the world around him for the time being.

He gets away with it, too, for the better part of two days. Then, the knocks start coming. At first it’s Angela, seeking him out as she has been the past few weeks. He decides against acknowledging her presence and keeps his door closed. Then it’s Lena, then Genji, then Fareeha, all with their own audible worries. He almost feels bad, sending them away, but in the end what he’s calling self-preservation wins out and he sends them off, telling them he’s just got a migraine and needs to be alone.

At last, when the peace and quiet have finally sunk in to Jesse’s brain, the final knock comes. It’s firm but quiet: purposeful. McCree recognizes it. He immediately declines to answer.

Unsurprisingly, Hanzo knocks again.

When McCree refuses to answer for the third time, there is a quiet beeping from outside and then the lock clicks open. He steps into the room. McCree hastily pulls the thin blanket over his mostly nude frame; normally he is not one for modesty, but he lacks another way to guard himself.

“What?” he barks. It comes out harsher than it should. McCree doesn’t really care.

“You have been absent for several days.” Hanzo’s voice is cool and level. McCree kind of wants to punch him.

“Not feelin’ well,” he grunts.

“Then let me assist you to the medbay.”

“No!” Hanzo’s eyes widen. McCree lowers his voice. “No, nah. ‘S nothin’ I can’t deal with on my own.”

Hanzo’s gaze is firm, but not cold. McCree swipes a tongue along his upper lip, realizes it’s cracked, registers he must look worse than he thought.

“You are not well,” Hanzo says slowly. He takes two steps closer to McCree, who is backed against the wall of his small bunk now. McCree swallows. The ruse is up.

“In a manner of speaking.” McCree averts his eyes as he admits, “‘m not… sick. ‘M just… pregnant.”

The pause lingers on.

“I do not understand,” Hanzo eventually replies. He does not sound angry; McCree takes that as a positive.

“ _Apparently_ since I never had a hysterectomy or my ovaries removed ‘n’ whatnot, it was still possible. Is, still.” More silence. McCree’s tongue feels too big for his mouth, but he manages to spit out, “Doc estimates ‘m about 12, 13 weeks.” Another long pause. “You’re the father. Er, other father.”

Hanzo clears his throat. “What do you intend to do?”

McCree shrugs. “I’ve kinda been avoiding it,” he admits. “Easier that way.” He scrubs a hand over his face, over the tangles of his beard and the bags under his eyes. “Listen, Shimada, I don’t--I don’t know if I’m keepin’ it, or what, but this is my problem, not yours.”

“Do not say ridiculous things,” Hanzo interjects, but McCree just continues on.

“It’s my body and my… _issue_ , and whatever happens, you don’t gotta be a part of it, okay? Just. . . let me do me, ‘n’ it’ll be fine.”

A whole minute passes, and then Hanzo nods, just once. “Of course,” he says. “Forgive me for intruding.”

Just like that, Hanzo vanishes.

 

 

 

 

Hanzo Shimada has taken many punches in his lifetime, but few have left him reeling as hard as this information.

Pregnant. McCree is pregnant, and the child is _his_ . Hanzo will be a father-- _could_ be a father, he corrects himself. He is not so backwards as to think, or even wish, to make Jesse McCree go through something he does not want. He is not so backwards as to think Jesse McCree would let him, either.

But. . . if he does. . .

 _“Whatever happens, you don’t gotta be a part of it, okay?”_ echos back through his mind. McCree’s resigned look comes with it. Hanzo wonders if he will be allowed to participate, should McCree keep the child. He wonders if he will be allowed to comfort McCree should he not.

Their. . . relationship, for lacking a term, has been complicated thus far. Hanzo admits he initially distrusted McCree, and underestimated him, but true to his talk, McCree performed on the battlefield far superior to Hanzo’s predictions. That had gained him some trust, created a tentative bond between them, that allowed the _something_ they had to click.

Hanzo does not know why he finds McCree so infuriatingly attractive. He does not even know when he first noticed it. But he has, and he found the feeling was mutual one late night after a week long mission in Caracas that had culminated in destruction of a Talon base. McCree took home a few broken fingers, Hanzo a black eye, but adrenaline was running high after the operation and the entire base was in good spirits. Someone suggested celebratory drinks, and the next thing both knew, they were tipsy and sitting on the cliffside stargazing. Or rather, Hanzo was stargazing; McCree was looking elsewhere entirely.

_“Can I help you with something?” Hanzo asks, but there is no bite to it. McCree laughs all the way from his belly._

_“Just lookin’, sweetheart.” He chuckles again, more to himself. “That look don’t suit ya.”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“That look.” He gestures toward Hanzo’s face. “Such a pretty face ain’t deservin’ of such a nasty thing.”_

_Hanzo reaches up to touch the puffy, bruised skin around his left eye. True: it had been a painful punch to take, and Hanzo much prefers midrange combat than that in close quarters. But it was the first and only punch the attacker landed, much to their chagrin. Hanzo gives his own chuckle._

_“You ought to see the other guy,” he says, voice taking on the affect he uses when imitating McCree. Instead of responding, McCree’s right hand comes up to cover Hanzo’s left, gently prodding at the mottled bruise. His hand must be the same size as Hanzo’s, but at that moment it feels much larger. The contrast between the heat of McCree’s hands and his own is vibrant._

_Hanzo swallows. It seems McCree is staring not_ at _him, but_ through _him. McCree’s prosthetic hand comes up to rest on Hanzo’s other cheek. Hanzo blinks, his vision swims, and McCree’s face is suddenly mere inches from his own._

_They move in at the same time. Their noses bump on the way in, but then their lips slot together. McCree’s wild beard brushes Hanzo’s own, well-kept one, scratches slightly as they move in deeper._

_They part. McCree is looking at Hanzo like he’s the stars themselves and Hanzo? Hanzo feels exactly the same way._

They slept together that night, and the night after. That had been in November; it’s now mid-February. After that, they meet on late nights when the rest of the base is asleep, or after the adrenaline rush of missions, or to keep the nightmares at bay. They sleep together. They never fall asleep together.

Just a few weeks prior, not long before McCree was set to head out to Barcelona, they lay in bed next to each other. Usually, Hanzo does his best to stay awake so that he can slip out, but he felt himself heading toward sleep faster than he would like. In the quiet darkness, part of him felt untouchable.

_“What is this?” he asks, without thinking. McCree clicks his tongue._

_McCree shrugged. “I dunno, to be honest.”_

_“What should it be?” he continues, thinking perhaps this will provide a better answer. McCree falls silent._

_“‘S not a relationship,” McCree says, sounding sure. “But it’s. . . something. You’re something, I’ll tell ya that.” He laughs, soft but full-bodied and warm. “I’m all right with keepin’ things casual if you are.”_

_Hanzo nods. He is indeed ‘cool’ with keeping things casual, though something twinges in him at the word. He squashes it down._

That had been the last of it.

But this--this changes things. Or it should, Hanzo thinks. This is an entirely new life, a drastic change to the situation. The question now is whether McCree will allow him access, or whether he will wish for their relationship to maintain its current boundaries.

Hanzo finds himself hoping, despite his better judgement, for the former.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, after hiding his unbuttoned pants behind a large belt buckle, and attempting to stomach down some dry toast, McCree walks his ass into the medbay. Angela looks up from her desk, positively startled, and immediately ushers him to sit down on an exam table, where she pulls the curtains.

“McCree!” she chides, voice shrill. She seems ready to break into lecture, but McCree says, voice hoarse, “Not today, doc,” and she stops.

“How have you been?” she instead asks. McCree huffs.

“Right rotten,” he admits. “Achy, sick, ‘n’ my damn pants don’t fit.” He tries to crack a smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. Angela nods knowingly.

“That is about the progression,” she says, trying to keep her tone light as well. Her eyes are sharp when she asks, “Have you considered your options?”

McCree’s mouth goes dry. He wants to say he hasn’t. Wants to pretend he’s avoided all thought of them, of what this means, of any possible future.

The truth is, all he’s been doing, awake and asleep, is thinking about them. Dreams of horrible, bloody messes; of bright brown eyes and gentle giggles; of distorted hips and a grotesquely bloated belly; of soft, fine hair and Hanzo’s nose. Of the pain in the ass of traveling off base, the pain in the ass of giving birth, the pain in the ass of being benched from missions.

Mostly, he’s thought about being alone. Because, like it or not, that’s what he is. Always has been, really: his youngest days spent roaming from house to house, then roaming the streets with hooligans who kept him close but were never close to him, until Overwatch the first time around. They’d been the closest he’d gotten to a family, but even then, McCree realized, this was all rank, all procedure, all mission and order. Every feel good moment was just calculated, part of the bigger picture of moral. McCree realized that in his years Between. He knows he’s the only one there for himself, and the only one who’ll ever be.

And yet…

And yet…

The part of him whose knees ache when it rains, who brought Hana soup the last time she was sick, who helps do the dishes after team dinners. . . the part of him that he’s always squashed down, that’s longed to settle somewhere for longer than a couple o’ nights or months. . . Well. . .

“I have,” McCree says. “‘N’ I’m, um, keepin’ it.”


	3. We'll Wait and See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out to extravirginwriting for beta work! This chapter is at least 300% better as a result. :)

McCree expected some reaction from Angela, but he hadn’t expected this.

The very first thing she does after his admission is interrogate him about it. Amid questions like _have you considered the career implications?_ and _are you sure?_ , McCree laughs.

“I’m not joking,” Angela says, her tone serious. “This is a big decision McCree.”

“And I’m a big boy,” he counters. “In fact, I’m a grown man, doctor, and I can make my own decisions.” That seems to take her down a notch.

“Forgive me,” she says softly. “I just. . . your decision surprised me, and and it is my duty as your physician--and as your friend--to make sure you are making medically sound decisions of your own free will and without outside pressures.”

McCree’s eyebrows rise. “You’re gonna have to translate for me whatcha mean.”

Angela swallows. She fidgets with her pen, tapping it against her clipboard. “I am simply concerned that… others may be putting pressure on you that could impact your decision. Namely…” She shifts, but maintains her eye contact. “Well, primarily, the other father.”

The implication hits McCree like a sack of bricks. McCree has to remind himself that Angela’s known him for more than a couple of years: she knows his history better than most. Of course she’s concerned he’s being pressured.

He cannot help the warm laugh that bubbles outward. “Nah, doc. Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Thank ya, but it’s all me. I’m jus’ gettin’ older every day, ‘n’ figured it could be nice to keep some proper company.”

Some of the tension drains from Angela’s shoulders. Her voice is soft when she says. “If you’re sure. There is, of course, still time to change your mind. In the meantime,” her tone firms up, “I’d like to schedule an ultrasound as soon as possible. If you’re available tomorrow evening, I have some time where I could fit you in.””

McCree sighs; these are the “reality” parts he’s less thrilled to deal with. “Yeah, awright,” he concedes. “That’ll work.”

Angela nods. “Good, good.” She scribbles a few things down on her clipboard, then asks, “Do you know who the father is?”

McCree’s mouth goes instantly dry.

“I do,” he chokes out. “‘S not relevant though. He’s, um, not particularly in the picture.”

Angela raises an eyebrow. “I’m bound by confidentiality,” she reminds. Still, he declines to answer.

“Well,” she continues, “If he comes around, you’re welcome to bring him along to any appointments. It can be an exciting time for both parents.” McCree assures her he’s listening, even while knowing he’ll never relay that message to Hanzo.

He supposes Hanzo will eventually learn that McCree has chosen to keep the baby, but McCree knows better than to expect involvement. Hanzo’s a lone wolf, who has made clear he doesn’t want to take their relationship further than its casual bounds, and McCree can respect that. He made this decision alone, and he has no problems with carrying it out alone. At least, that’s what he tells himself. And that’s what he intends.

 

 

 

The check-up the next evening comes all too quickly, much to McCree’s chagrin. It feels like he’s barely left the medbay before he’s back there, tight t-shirt rucked up to his chest.

He’s had the portable ultrasound machine used on him in the past--usually to straighten out where exactly he’s bleeding from this time--but the cool gel across his stomach is still uncomfortable and sets him on edge. He’s busy distracting himself from the sensation when Angela says, “And right there--is your baby.”

McCree cranes his neck. Angela scoots the screen over. She’s pointing to the grainy black and white display screen, and McCree isn’t really sure at what.

“This right here--” She draws a circle with her index finger. “--is the head, and down here--” She traces to the right of the screen “--are its toes.”

Suddenly, the pieces click: McCree can see exactly what Angela’s talking about, from the overly large head to its tiny little hands. His fingers twitch and his throat goes dry. That’s an actual _baby_ inside of him, with actual limbs and everything. Seeing it all laid out like that--actually _seeing it_ \--is like getting the wind knocked out of him. _A baby,_ an honest-to-God human being growing inside of him. And not just any baby-- _his_ baby.

Then, just as quickly as it hit him, it’s gone. Angela’s clicked the machine off, and he’s left staring at a blank screen, feeling silly for getting this worked up over something so small.

“Would you like a print out?” Angela asks gently. She hands him a paper towels so he can wipe off the ultrasound gel. McCree shakes his head. Angela gives him one anyway.  

McCree lets the sonogram burn a hole in his pocket until he’s safely in his room.

Leaning against the door, McCree swallows sharply. With gentle fingers, he pulls the flimsy rectangular photograph from his pocket. There, again, is his child. Proof that his child exists, that this isn’t some elaborate practical joke he’s the butt of. He thinks, absurdly, that except for the head, the baby looks like a plucked chicken wing. But then--there are the toes, the details of the nose, and he’s pretty sure he can pick out the fingers. The actual parts of his baby.

As he falls into bed not long later, McCree is still clutching the picture of the tiny life inside him.

 

 

 

For the next two weeks, McCree only sees Hanzo in meetings and briefings. Prior to all of _this_ , the two had a nearly comfortable routine. Sometimes, it meant running into one another on the way into and out of the practice ranges; other times, roaming the same balconies late at night. Now, if not for the times Overwatch required them to be in a room together, McCree would have thought he’d gone off base entirely.

Instead, it just becomes clear to McCree that he’s being avoided.

He tries not to let it get to him, but honestly, it stings. He hadn’t expected Hanzo to want any part of McCree’s issues, but he thought Hanzo might still want something to do with him. He now knows he’s a fool for thinking they could continue, business as usual.

Their long silence is broken when, of all things, McCree goes to do laundry.

He’s doing it for the second time in two weeks, a rarity for him, because his stock of clothes that fit has dwindled significantly. It’s well past midnight, and he expects to be the only one up, so when he walks in on Hanzo bent over and moving his own laundry, McCree freezes.

A few seconds pass. Hanzo does not notice him. Loudly, McCree clears his throat.

Hanzo shoots up like a startled cat. He pulls one bright blue earbud out.

“My apologies,” he says. He increases the speed with which he’s folding his laundry. “I will be gone momentarily.”

It’s not the reaction McCree wants. He supposes it should be the reaction he expects.

“Ya don’t have’ta,” he says, sliding in with his own laundry basket. “We exist in the same place. Ya can’t well avoid me for the next six months.”

Hanzo drops the shirt he’s folding. McCree sees his hands are trembling. He has never seen Hanzo like this. His heart sinks, heavy, to his stomach. He did not realize he had put stock in Hanzo’s response.

“Forgive me,” Hanzo says after a long moment of quiet. His voice is steady.  “I was. . . unsure, what reaction you would prefer.”

“Like I said,” McCree begins, loading his laundry into the washer. “You don’t gotta be a part of anything. ‘M not gonna force ya or nothin’. But that don’t mean you gotta go scamperin’ off every time you see me. ‘S not a big deal.”

Hanzo lowers his head, more a bow than a nod. “Of course,” he says. He gathers the last of his laundry, all perfectly folded now, and hefts the basket up. “I shall see you around, McCree.”

As he disappears, McCree can’t help feeling like he’s somehow fucked up.


	4. Something in him that I Simply Didn’t See

Despite his bravado, McCree has never been one for vanity. His hair falls where it lands, same as his beard, and he’s gone days on end without showering even when it _was_ an option. What’s stared back in the mirror hasn’t mattered to him in years, probably not since he got top surgery, and it shouldn’t matter now.

And yet, he’s caught a glimpse of his reflection, and can’t stop staring.

The weight gain has been gradual so far, but McCree has definitely noticed it in the fit of his clothes. Earlier this week his loosest jeans wouldn’t button, and he’s taken to closing them with a rubberband. His t-shirts are starting to pull a little, or even ride up. Thankfully, the handful of overshirts he owns--overly large plaid flannels he bought when he was first dressing to pass--are still big enough on him that they mask some of the curve of his belly. But his hips feel a little thicker too, some extra padding going their way. It’s not enough to be feminine, but it still cuts it too close for McCree’s liking.

McCree tears his eyes away and glances at the clock. He was set to meet Angela for a check-up five minutes ago. He flings open the door, ready to go.

He doesn’t expect Hanzo to be standing right outside his door, hand raised to knock. It throws McCree of balance, and he has to catch himself on the door jam. Hanzo lowers his hand.

“Whoa, hey there,” McCree says, righting himself. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You need something, Mr. Shimada?”

“I was. . . coming to talk to you,” he says, and it sounds like an admission. “About the. . . child.” McCree bristles. He straightens up to his full height, using every inch he has over Hanzo as an advantage.

“What about it?” he prods.

“You are keeping it, yes?” Hanzo’s voice is low, but not unkind as he asks. His gaze meets McCree’s.

“Yea.” McCree feels like a kid caught in the cookie jar. He clears his throat. “I told ya, you don’t gotta be involve--”

“I would like to be,” Hanzo interjects. His shoulders pull back. “Involved, that is. If. . . if you would allow.”

Once, on accident, McCree set off a flashbang grenade too close to himself. The resulting blindness and stunning is a lot like he feels now.

In the background, a clock is ticking; he’s late for his appointment with Angela. McCree shakes some sense back into himself.

“I’ll think about it,” he replies, shutting his door and jogging off without another word.

 

 

 

Angela’s done all her measurements and is just setting up the ultrasound machine when McCree blurts out, “It’s Hanzo."

“Pardon?” she says, and it sounds like she’s only half paying attention.

“The, erm, other father. It’s… him.” He can tell she is surprised, but she does her best not to show it. McCree is grateful.

Angela hums softly for a minute or two, continuing her work. Then, very quietly, she says, “You are going to make an excellent father, alone or otherwise.” The corners of McCree’s eyes prickle. He holds back the tears.

The pair remains silent as Angela finishes up and spreads conductive gel across McCree’s hairy belly. She’s just gelling the probe when she asks, “Would you like to know the sex of the baby?”

McCree can’t deny he’s thought about this: wondered, in his spare moments before falling asleep, whether he’ll have a son or a daughter. There’s some anxiety threaded in it, some reason he can’t identify.

“McCree?”

He blinks and snaps out of it. “Um. . . sure,” he says. Nobody need know about the pit in his stomach. Angela smiles at him.

A few minutes later, after she’s pointed out the ways the baby has grown and informed him that everything looks good, she says, “Aaaaand congratulations! The baby’s female.”

It takes McCree a moment to realize: he’s smiling.

 _A daughter_ , he thinks. He’s gonna have a _daughter_. Unless she comes out three ways backwards like he did, but even then, he’ll love her all the same.

When Angela asks at the end of the appointment if he wants a copy of the ultrasound picture, he asks for two.

  
  


McCree doesn’t know when he memorized bits of Hanzo’s routine, but somewhere along the line he did. He learns it’s still the same when he goes to the practice range to find Hanzo after his appointment. He stands up on the catwalk for a few minutes, just watching Hanzo shoot and gathering his nerves. McCree knows Hanzo has noticed him. He is being given the first move.

“It’s a girl,” he calls out, when Hanzo goes to retrieve his arrows from the moving practice bots.

“Excuse me?” Hanzo calls back. His voice echoes off the high ceilings. Hanzo’s tone seems colder than usual, though McCree might be imagining it.

“The baby,” McCree answers. “It’s--she’s--a girl.”

Hanzo freezes, arrows in hand. After a moment, he gathers up the rest of his arrows and trudges back to his position.

“Congratulations,” Hanzo says, and there’s no mistaking the coolness in his voice. McCree supposes he deserves it.

“Could say the same to you.” McCree leans over the railing, slouching. “She’s your daughter too.”

Hanzo stiffens. “That is. . . not necessary.”

McCree feels something hot flare inside him. Against all logic, the corners of his eyes prickle. He bites back the tears.

“I’m not playin’ with ya,” McCree continues, soldering on. “You’ve got just as much a right as I do, ‘n’ if you wanna be involved then… I’d--we’d--” McCree’s right hand is pressed gently to his bump “--have ya.”  

Even so far away, McCree catches a glimpse of _something_ \--doubt, fear, anger?--in Hanzo’s expression. He makes for the stairs of the catwalk into the training room before Hanzo can scold him.

Hanzo resumes shooting.

“Here,” McCree says, once Hanzo has run through his marks again. He shoves a copy of the ultrasound into Hanzo’s hands before he can reject it. “‘S from my appointment earlier. That there--” He points “--is her head, and that there’s her butt.”

Hanzo stares at the printout silently. McCree wonders if he did something wrong, if he’s crossed some invisible boundary of which he was unaware.

“Thank you,” Hanzo says quietly. He is precise when he folds the picture in half and tucks it into his satchel.

“Sorry for bein’ an ass earlier.” McCree scratches the back of his neck. “Ye just startled me, ‘s all.” Hanzo hums softly. He resumes shooting without another word.

McCree watches him run through his arrows twice more, all marks precise, before he takes his leave.


	5. And so I'm Sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for so much delay! life's been, well, Life. hopefully I can get this ball rolling. also since it has been so long, i lost my beta, so if anyone's still interested hmu!

It takes two days for Hanzo to come and find him. McCree lets the other man approach this time, gives him the turf advantage so to speak, and it works. Hanzo seems settled when he finds McCree making coffee in the early hours of the morning after a sleepless night. 

“You are allowed caffeine?” He sounds doubtful. McCree snorts. 

“I’m supposed to get a full night’s sleep too, but you don’t see that happenin’.” 

“I will make sure to inform Dr. Ziegler,” Hanzo says. It takes a moment for McCree to realize that Hanzo is, in fact, cracking a joke. 

“Barely smoked since I found out,” McCree responds. “Doctor’ll have my coffee over my dead and cooling body.” He pours his mug, adds one cream, takes a sip. It tastes of heaven. 

“I would like to go next time,” Hanzo says softly. “To an… appointment. If you are comfortable.”

It’s not the request McCree expects, by virtue of being a request at all.

“Well sure,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “Next one’s in a month. I’ll be 20 weeks, according to the good doctor’s predictions.” Hanzo nods, like he understands all of what this means. McCree realizes he might. 

“D’you have any kids?” McCree blurts out, ruining the otherwise peaceful silence. Hanzo’s posture straightens. 

“No,” he admits. “Genji is, ah, the last of my family.”

The tension between them spikes at Genji’s mention. McCree expects Hanzo knows that he and Genji grew to be fast friends during Overwatch’s original run. McCree expects Hanzo also knows that McCree still blames Hanzo for the angry young man he initially met those years ago.

“Apologies,” Hanzo says quietly. “I should not have brought him up.” 

McCree shakes his head. He squashes down the hot, nauseating feeling within him. “He’s your brother. There’s no shame in that.” 

“I should go,” Hanzo says, but he lingers for a moment more. At his side, his hand gives a slight twitch. McCree reminds himself that he cannot possibly hate Hanzo for deeds more than Hanzo hates himself. 

Hanzo leaves without another word, and McCree is left feeling inexplicably lost. 

 

That is how they stop ignoring one another. McCree is thankful, primarily because he is sure someone was bound to catch on to the tension building between the two of them. Now, Hanzo drops into group meals, or passes him by in the hallways with a faint smile. When the only open seat at a briefing is next to McCree, Hanzo does not hesitate to take it. The return to normalcy feels good. 

Time passes so quickly, that McCree barely realizes he’s coming up on 20 weeks until Hanzo mentions it. 

“You have an appointment soon, yes?” he asks during a blessed break between briefings. McCree is startled to find he does. “I would like to attend, if that is all right.” 

Something sharp nags at him at the request, but McCree dutifully pushes it down. He pulls out his phone, finds the date and time, and passes the information along. Hanzo, for all his stoicism, looks genuinely relieved. It pulls sparks from the pits of McCree’s stomach. 

The two don’t speak again the rest of the day, but that feels all right. 

 

A single desk light illuminates the spartan Overwatch dorm room. Inside the closet hangs rich, textured fabrics, but atop the bed lays only a standard issue blanket and pillow. 

Hanzo sits on the floor, cross legged. It’s fifteen minutes until eight. Hanzo’s been waiting for this appointment for nearly a month. He sat down nearly an hour ago, just after dinner, to try and calm what seems like an inferno roiling within him. He had hoped simple meditation would help; so far, nothing else has. He already spent the better part of the day in the practice range, only for his mind--and his marks--to drift. 

Finally, Hanzo cannot wait any longer. He arrives in the medbay ten minutes before McCree’s appointment to find himself all alone. He takes a seat in a chair near the doorway. 

Angela walks in, flipping through a thick file. She doesn’t notice him at first, but once she does, her expression is wide-eyed. 

“Ah, Mr. Shimada. Can I help you with something?”

Hanzo swallows. “I am. . .waiting for McCree.” He cannot tell if his voice betrays his nerves. Thankfully, Angela understands.

“Of course. My mistake. You’re welcome to come in further.” She gestures him in, toward an exam table. He takes a seat nearby, just as quiet. Hanzo does not bother trying to dissipate the uncomfortable surprize shared between them. 

McCree shows up at ten past eight, a little rushed, apologizing profusely as he walks into the door. Hanzo thinks he does not actually sound sorry.

When he catches sight of Hanzo, McCree stumbles for a second, like he didn’t actually expect to see him here. Hanzo supposes McCree just has that little faith in him. Perhaps he deserves it. 

As McCree settles in atop the exam table, Hanzo finds himself struck by McCree’s affable nature. Despite the importance of this appointment, McCree is joking with Angela and laughing. Hanzo reminds himself they have known one another a long time. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

Around her laughter, Angela starts the appointment with much tutting over McCree’s vitals and habits. “Too much caffeine and not enough sleep,” she scolds. “You were just complaining to me about your mood swings yesterday, and neither of these help. Additionally, they put you at risk for low birth weight.

“Speaking of which…” She finishes measuring the curve of McCree’s stomach, and is biting her lip. “You could do to add a few more pounds, Jesse.” McCree balks. 

“How much are we talkin’ doc?” 

“Ideally, around 30 pounds total,” she informs him. “Of course, given the changes your body will be going through with a lowered testosterone level, we can expect some of that weight to come naturally as you lose some muscle mass. Right now you’ve put on just under ten pounds, and you should be at about twelve or thirteen. The goal is to gain a pound a week from here on out.” 

McCree lets out a low whistle. Hanzo finds himself agreeing. 

“‘M gonna be huge as a house,” he mutters. 

“Yes, well.” Angela scribbles down a few things, then adds, “You’re not going to be able to hide this much longer, Jesse. It’s only going to help if you tell people.” 

“I’ve told ya, it ain’t their business, Angie,” he shoots back, teeth gritted. Angela shrugs. 

“Be that as it may. . .” She sets her clipboard down. “I’ll be right back with the ultrasound machine, and then we get get a good look at what’s really going on.” 

She is out of the room barely two seconds, but Hanzo cannot contain himself. Hanzo’s voice is quiet, but carries, when he says, “I had not realized you had not informed anyone else.” McCree shrugs. 

“Yeah, well, I’m a private kinda guy.” Hanzo finds that hard to believe.

They are both silent. Then: “I have. . . been considering telling Genji.” Another pause. “If you would not be uncomfortable.” 

McCree smiles, but it looks forced. “Yeah, go ahead. Yer kid too, remember.” Hanzo’s posture remains stiff.

“Thank you,” he says softly. Before McCree can reply, Angela comes back with the portable ultrasound. 

“And there,” she says, a few minutes later once everything’s been set up, “is your baby girl.” Even without her assistance, Hanzo can see the shape of the baby: her head, her body, spine, her legs. For a moment, it feels as if he can’t breathe. Then, Hanzo finds himself smiling. 

In his satchel sits the picture from the last ultrasound. The crease is worn, but the rest of the picture is still in good condition. Hanzo hasn’t gone a day without looking at it. 

“She’s beautiful.” McCree says it, but Hanzo finds himself immediately agreeing. It makes no sense: before them is nothing more than an image of an oversized blob that is just starting to take shape. Yet something warm blossoms in Hanzo the longer he stares at the screen. That is his daughter. 

When they leave the appointment that evening, they go their separate ways, but both have an identical picture of their little girl tucked safely away.


End file.
